It's all laid out in front of you (and that half murdered the mystey)
by ibuzoo
Summary: "She's the third girl within three months." Hermione pricks a leaf of lettuce with her white plastic fork and dabs it in her yoghurt dressing, watches how the oil and the herbs coil around the green before she replies a tad too cool, "She won't be the last."


**It's all laid out in front of you (and that half murdered the mystey)**

**Prompt:** Failure

**Rating:** M

**Warnings:** Modern AU / College AU / Serial Killer AU / Mention of Murder / Blood and Gore

**Word count:** 1579

**A/N:** I really liked how this one turned out, I mean I have a bunch of Serial Killer AU's but this is one of my favourite ones.

* * *

><p><strong>o.<strong>

"There's something better than killing the one you love", he whispers while his lips shape dark violet hickeys on her pelvic bone, yellow rings around a galaxy-coloured bruise and he licks her salty skin clean and wet down to her most sensible spot.

Her breath catches in her throat and she moans, hungry, prurient while her hands bury in the sheets of her bed and her body presses up to his saliva-covered mouth, "Something better?"

For the fragment of a second she could swear she saw his eyes glistening with something perilous, something gruesome but he licks over her clit a second later, covers the skin under her navel with saliva and juice.

* * *

><p><strong>i.<strong>

It starts out of instinct, out of curiosity with Tom who smells like dust and blood and spearmint and old parchment and when he talks she feels a part of her body reacting, pulsating by something she's never been able to control.

It starts when she says yes even though every fibre of her existence tells her to say no.

* * *

><p><strong>ii.<strong>

She tries to fix him.

But she fails again and again.

* * *

><p><strong>iii.<strong>

"Did you hear about Myrtle?", it's Ron who talks - it's always Ron - and Hermione watches disgusted by how the ketchup lingers in his right mouth corner and drops down to the table while he pushes a handful of chips between his teeth, chews away on them before he takes another generous bite from his burger, smears the cheese and the dark Mexican sauce on his cheek and his lips in the process.

Harry gnaws on the straw in his lemonade and he jerks his head up, furrows his brows, "Myrtle? What about her?" Ron starts to talk again and little crumbs of bread and beef land on the ketchup in front of him, "She's dead - found her in the public conveniences in the city mall this morning. Poor thing was killed by a single slash last night. She's the third girl within three months."

She pricks a leaf of lettuce with her white plastic fork and dabs it in her dressing, watches how the oil and the herbs coil around the green before she replies a tad too cool, "She won't be the last."

She ignores the glances both cast in her direction.

* * *

><p><strong>iv.<strong>

There's an old stain of dried blood between the dark navy stripes on his button-down and she scratches with her long manicured finger over the fabric, tries to rub it off but it's already soaked in the threads. Her mind starts to race and she wonders for a split second if she should investigate about it, if she should corner him and find out whatever happened.

She decides she doesn't care and throws the shirt in the washer, fills the fastener with spring dew fabric conditioner and closes the cap and starts the machine.

_(she takes the shirt out of the washing machine some hours later but the stain is still there, still crusts between the stripes so she rips it in shreds and throws it away)_

* * *

><p><strong>v.<strong>

There's a single message on her phone a month later, perfect orthography and punctuation that tells her that he will be home late and she reads it three times, smears with her thumb over the slick surface of her phone screen-protector before she puts it down on the table. She takes a book out of the shelf and takes a last glance out the window, watches thick white snowflakes float to the ground before she turns around and switches the lights off.

* * *

><p><strong>vi.<strong>

In her dreams she visits white forests with thick blankets of snow covering the ground, soft and flaky and each step freezes her soles, burns on the undersides of her heels which leave bloody crimson traces in the pure white, rivers that run between the trees. Hermione wakes with a frantic heartbeat and sweat drops on her front but when she turns around Tom sleeps peaceful besides her, dreams calm and placid with a slackened face.

_(there's blood on his trousers this time, faint splashes on dark denim but she spots them on instant and tries to rub them off under boiling water)_

* * *

><p><strong>vii. <strong>

"You need to stop," her voice is barely above a whisper, hardly audible and it doesn't really sound convincing at all, not even for her own ears but she takes a step forward, grabs his hand and presses, more urgently, "Did you hear me Tom?"

"I did," he rips his hand out of hers and runs it through his thick dark hair, pushes strands back out of his front and his eyes gleam with something hazardous that chills the breath in her lungs. A second later it changes, clears itself and he brushes a kiss to her cheek, whispers something in her ear before he leaves the flat, his leather satchel loosely swaying with each step he takes.

_(the places where he touched her feel strangely smudged, like a blanket of blood that covers her skin, un-breathable and thick like honey - but when she looks down everything's clean and pure)_

* * *

><p><strong>viii.<strong>

Cedric doesn't show up for third period.

Cedric never shows up again.

* * *

><p><strong>ix.<strong>

She attends Cedric's funeral and stays stoic beside Harry, watches the masses of black clothed people show their respect one by one while large flower bouquets adorn the coffin with white roses and lilies and silk ribbons in mustard yellow. It's a long procession and Ginny snorts, pushes her hands deeper in her coat pockets, grumbles out, "Does anyone know what really happened to him?"

There's no snow falling down anymore, just cold bitter wind that soars around them and Harry answers, Ron does too but she keeps silent and bites the inside of her mouths to avoid a reply at all.

* * *

><p><strong>x.<strong>

The key fits the lock on her door perfectly and Hermione feels the fatigue of a long day in university creeping up her spine, setting itself in the corners and wrinkles of her skin and bones and she drops the bag on the nearby walnut table, rubs with her hand at the tensed muscles in her neck.

It takes her a moment to realise that someone already sits in her favourite armchair and she physically strains before she recognises Tom's beautiful face and his elegant posture - only with a second glance she spots the blood that already dried on his cheek and his tee, large crimson stains that soaked the fabric to the core, a horrible look that raises the bile in her throat until it floods her mouth.

They stare at each other for a sheer endless amount of time before she finally finds her voice again, accusing and bitter that sours her tongue, "You said it would go away. You said it is over."

Tom looks up at her with hard and frozen eyes, red-rimmed and sunken over his sharp cheekbones and gaunt cheeks and when he answers his tone sounds haunted, desperate, "I didn't know."

So you lied, she thinks and it's a bitter certainty that burns in her mind, a jeopardy that she accepts far too easy and it feels like a failure again when she realises that sometimes when people are broken in certain ways, they can never be fixed.

* * *

><p><strong>xi.<strong>

They burn his clothes and the stench of combustive agent tickles her nose while she rubs the blood off his skin with a flannel and suddenly he kisses her, raw and hard and needing, fingers pressing in the space behind her ears and she's attacking his mouth with the same fierceness, bites at his lips and gnaws at his jaw until her knees hit the bed and her back collides with the mattress.

Tom is on top of her a second later and he pushes her knickers down with his free hand, pushes her dress up to her breast while his fingertips leave goosebumps as soon as they touch her warm skin and he replaces them with his lips a second after.

"There's something better than killing the one you love", he whispers while his lips shape dark violet hickeys on her pelvic bone, yellow rings around a galaxy-coloured bruise and he licks her salty skin clean and wet down to her most sensible spot.

Her breath catches in the back of her throat and she moans, hungry, prurient while her hands bury in the sheets of her bed and her body presses up to his saliva-covered mouth, "Something better?"

For the fragment of a second she could swear she saw his eyes glistening with something perilous, something gruesome but he licks over her clit a second later, covers the skin under her navel with saliva and juice before he answers, "Killing with the one you love."

* * *

><p><strong>xii.<strong>

She avoids the mirror when she steps into the shower that night, the way she always has because she doesn't want to see the failure written all over her face, but halfway into the spray she stops and turns around, observes the copper stains of old smudged blood on her cheek and neck, eyes bright and clear and hard in her face while the smile that lingers on her lips is a little crooked, almost dangerous, almost predatory.

She realises that some people don't need to be fixed; but others need to be broken.

_(she decides she never wants to be fixed anymore)_


End file.
